


Infatuation

by naboru



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Secret Crush, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboru/pseuds/naboru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead End is more than a little infatuated with Blast Off, and finally dares act on it.</p>
<p>Blast Off/Dead End / fluff, smut (of the plug’n’play kind), age gap, one-sided attraction / R</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infatuation

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** fluff, smut (of the plug’n’play kind), age gap, one-sided attraction  
>  **Continuity:** G1 (part of ultharkitty’s [Dysfunction AU](http://community.livejournal.com/lost_carcosa/19574.html#cutid1))  
>  **Characters/Pairings:** Blast Off/Dead End  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sadly, nothing is mine.  
>  **Summary:** Dead End is more than a little infatuated with Blast Off, and finally dares act on it.  
>  **Beta:** ultharkitty

Dead End was nervous when he sat down on Blast Off’s berth. It was the only available place that wasn’t the floor. The shuttle sat on the only chair in the room, and so there was nothing he should think or imagine occupying the berth in any way.

It was just that he _did_.

The Stunticon shifted on the soft covering, and suppressed an insecure imitation of a human cough. Making such a sound had become habit a while ago. He blamed Wildrider for it.

Thinking about this habit, and other habits his team mates had, distracted Dead End enough to relax a little.

Blast Off worked with tools, repairing circuitry under the heat shield of his lower arm. The heat shield was off, and Dead End interpreted it as a proof of trust when the shuttle dared remove it.

This again made Dead End nervous; he clenched his hand to a fist.

They hadn’t talked much yet. Dead End had simply sought Blast Off’s company, and the shuttle had accepted it, even offered Dead End a visit to his quarters, because the rec-room was too crowded.

It was stupid to be excited about that, Dead End told himself, the shuttle wouldn’t have any intentions at all.

Unlike himself.

Dead End caught himself staring at the circuitry, brass-coloured and delicate. It was a contrast to the abrasive heat shield that lay next to the arm – black, just like Blast Off’s wings and hands.

Those hands were bigger than Motormaster’s and even stronger. They’d easily be able to dent Dead End’s plating, leave streaks and hurt him badly.

But Blast Off wasn’t Motormaster. Dead End was sure the shuttle wouldn’t make use of his strength unless it was necessary – or maybe unintentionally during overload.

And that idea made his interfacing hardware tingle.

It wasn’t that Dead End particularly liked strong mechs, or mechs that were bigger than him. He just liked Blast Off.

The shuttle was eloquent, sophisticated and very intelligent and wise. He could tell stories about places that were as lifeless as all their frames would be in the end, and he had survived them. He hadn’t feared them, had even liked them, had embraced their emptiness and unsporting surroundings.

In that point, Blast Off was just like Dead End, only their reasons differed.

It was just sad that Blast Off never talked as much as Dead End wanted him to. Often Dead End had to speak about his thoughts and ideas for a while until Blast Off began talking about space.

He’d once mentioned that he hardly saw a point in talking about this to planet-bound mechs when they wouldn’t be able to understand completely.

Dead End found himself being proud that despite his opinion, the shuttle did speak about that. Maybe he’d left an impression on Blast Off.

He must have done so, the Stunticon was sure.

Blast Off had even invited him to his quarters. And honestly, why should he not?

Dead End was one of the best looking mechs, and he’d just finished his polish when the Combaticons had shown up on the Nemesis. He had no problem with Blast Off showing him off as his pretty friend. 

That thought made him forget that the shuttle was part of a team in which everyone else was a lunatic who might not like to see that. 

Dead End was in the same closed room as the shuttle – for the first time – and Blast Off even trusted him enough to repair important circuits in his presence. This wasn’t the time to think of consequences.

He’d just need to start talking now, or the silence would become unpleasant.

Having thought about what to talk about while they’d walked to the room, Dead End’s battle mask moved, but before a sound emerged, Blast Off stopped him by saying, “Get here. You need to hold this.”

Dead End got to his feet immediately.

Blast Off held a tool out to him, which he reluctantly took. Dead End didn’t even question it, nor did he think of it as an order.

“Put it there, and stay still.” Blast Off pointed at a place on the brass circuitry.

Dead End carefully put the tip of the tool on the mentioned part. Being this close, he could see the shuttle wince slightly at the touch.

Then Blast Off applied a tiny welder. The flame came closer to the circuitry, causing the black fingers to twitch. The shuttle hissed once, then it was done.

“Put it there,” Blast Off said, nodding towards the kit next to him while he took the heat shield and attached it again to his lower arm.

Dead End was tempted to touch the shield, knowing it was mostly numb.

He resisted, but didn’t move back to the berth.

Blast Off didn’t seem to mind. At least, the shuttle didn’t say anything, and there was nothing in his energy field to indicate displeasure. He simply took the energon cube with his daily ration.

Dead End always liked it when Blast Off withdrew his battle mask. He was handsome, and his optics under the parted visor cast a purple shimmer on his face.

He was staring, Dead End realised, but didn’t stop.

The warm tingle from his interface hardware returned, and with it that stupid, primitive urge he sometimes had when he thought about Blast Off.

“What’s wrong?” the shuttle demanded in his usual blank tone that gave no hint of his mood.

Dead End didn’t answer.

Before he could stop himself, his own battle mask was withdrawn, and he’d stepped closer, had crossed the last little distance between them. He leant forward, close but not touching. He braced himself on the edge of the desk, and the only contact they made was with their lips when Dead End pressed his against the shuttle’s.

It was an odd kiss. Unlike kisses he approached his team mates with, this one was urgent, almost desperate.

Dead End's lip plates moved against Blast Off’s, which didn’t move at all.

It lasted about ten astroseconds before Dead End realised that his kiss wasn’t returned. His lips stopped moving, and a hand was placed at his chest.

Slowly, Blast Off pushed Dead End away, a frown behind his visor. But he wasn't angry – Dead End could say that much.

The silence prolonged seemingly endlessly. The black hand was still on Dead End’s chest plating as though insurance to keep their distance.

“You should leave,” Blast Off said with a flat voice, causing Dead End’s fuel pump almost to stop in disappointment, but there was no hostility or annoyance in the shuttle’s energy signature where their fields met. “You don’t know what you want.” 

Dead End suppressed a flinch at the words. They implied much more, that Dead End was too young to know, that he was only an inexperienced grounder – no, an inexperienced _planet bound_ mech. 

A glimmer of anger added to the disappointment. He was more mature than most of the other, much older, Decepticons.

“I know what I want!” Dead End insisted, his engine revving lowly.

He regretted his words instantly. It sounded wrong. He also could have said “I want _you_ ”, which implied inappropriate thoughts - emotions even which he wasn’t allowed to have as a Decepticon. Not that Dead End had such sentimental feelings.

“I want you to show me…” Dead End corrected himself, and stopped again when he realised he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Sure, he wanted Blast Off to show him memories, places, but his processor clocked so fast around everything he desired, he had no way to express it in a few words.

“To show you?” Blast Off interrupted his erratic, unsorted ideas, speaking in a tone that showed a trace of amusement. “What exactly?” There was a tiny grin on the shuttle’s lip plates that made Dead End shiver and lean into the touch of the other’s hand.

“Whatever you’re willing to show me.“ Dead End was surprised by the static in his own voice, but he kept optical contact. It wasn’t hard, because with Blast Off sitting and him standing they were optic to optic.

Blast Off didn’t reply to this. He just stared at Dead End for a moment, then his optics began to rove over the Porsche’s plating.

That sent a thrill down Dead End’s back struts. Blast Off could eye him up as much as he liked.

And not only the purple optics roved, also the hand on the chest travelled lower, to Dead End’s waist where it cupped his interface panel.

Blast Off raised an optical ridge, and Dead End fought down the boding embarrassment.

The hand was cold on the hot metal, interface hardware heated by anticipation and this stupid need he didn’t want to admit he had.

The shuttle’s lip plates twitched to another quick grin. Dead End would have liked to look away. He struggled, and didn’t, even though his panel wasn’t the only reason for his nerves.

Blast Off’s hand was big. If he’d use both, he could easily wrap his fingers around Dead End’s waist. And he couldn’t do just this, but so much more. Those were the hands that had almost killed Motormaster; Dead End wasn’t supposed to want them on his armour like he did. 

It was as though he’d betray his team.

What he should have done was turn and leave. Just what Blast Off had suggested. Dead End struggled, but the decision was made for him the moment Blast Off’s thumb stroked over the upper rim of his interface panel, and the energy field fluctuated a little more intensely than before.

Dead End melted into the touch.

His optics dimmed, and the grip on the edge of the desk became tighter.

Oh Sigma, Dead End thought, and tried not to pounce. This was ridiculous. Till now, he hadn’t known just _how much_ he wanted these hands on his plating, to feel Blast Off with every wire in his frame.

His free hand clenched to a fist in an attempt to stay in control. It was so very difficult when Blast Off’s hand wandered anew. Slowly it stroked over the hip, further down till it reached the dark plating of Dead End’s legs.

The Stunticon tensed, and then shuddered when fingers were at his aft. There was no resistance as Blast Off tugged him closer. With his thoughts in the mist of anticipation, Dead End took a small step forward, and was directed closer again.

They shifted. Blast Off’s engine rumbled – a pleasant sound, deep and low, not threatening, but unrelenting. And then Dead End sat on Blast Off’s thigh, one hand still on the desk, the other resting on the chest in front of him.

Dead End was nervous.

He knew the shuttle didn’t like touching too much, and neither did he like talking. Dead End didn’t know what he was allowed to do.

But Dead End didn’t ask, and Blast Off didn’t say anything. The shuttle merely put the energon cube away, and let his fingers trail over the wheel rim.

The purple optics behind Dead End’s visor lit up at the sensations, and the heat spreading from the touch surged right into his interface hardware. He tried to hide his reaction, and kept staring at the Decepticon insignia on Blast Off’s chest, tensing to cover up the shiver that otherwise would have run through him.

It all was futile when the new touch at his interface panel caught him by surprise. Dead End gasped, and arched his back. The resting hand near the shuttle’s alt-mode vent dug into a transformation seam, and the other let go of the desk to scratch at the shuttles lower arm.

“Open.”

It was such a short word, but even before Blast Off was done saying it, Dead End’s cover retracted with a click.

The anticipation was unexpected arousing. Dead End had never guessed that only sitting there, without many touches, kisses or caresses, he’d be so revved up.

The black fingers traced over revealed components, and for a moment, Dead End stopped guessing and thinking completely. He sighed, and arched into the sensations. He leaned his forehead on Blast Off’s chest while blindly searching for the shuttle's heat shield.

This was so different from Motormaster’s treatment.

It was a different engine, a different tune; the touches were firm, but careful, and only few. But it was as though Blast Off knew exactly where to touch him, as though he knew every inch of Dead End’s frame. A finger circled over the rim of Dead End’s interface port, the energy field flaring off stronger in waves. The field ground against Dead End’s invaded it, and seeped under plating, straight into the sensitive circuits beneath, with the sensations most intense at his intimate equipment.

Without himself noticing, Dead End’s ventilation became quicker.

“Where?” The shuttle’s even tone dragged him out of his daze. Dead End frowned, and glanced up from beneath, optics searching for a hint as to what Blast Off meant.

“Where what?” he replied, voice staticky. He had no idea, because the charge made his logic circuitry lazy.

An amused huff was vented, hot air blown over Dead End frame like a gentle touch. It made him shiver.

Blast Off leant low, the lip plates near Dead End’s audial moved, and the tone dropped to a rough whisper, the amusement still audible. “Where else do you want me to touch you?”

Dead End tensed at that, and the arousal cleared a little. He hadn’t expected the question, and he’d never had to answer it before. With his team, they just knew where to touch. Dead End couldn’t know that it was quite common to ask something like this during a first interface with a person. 

Dead End was nervous. Maybe Blast Off didn’t know his frame that well, but Sigma, beneath the embarrassment built more arousal. His fingers on the shuttle's vent curled against the plating, and his optics dropped down, trying to focus on another purple panel.

It took Dead End almost a klik to find the courage to answer.

“Spoiler,” he muttered, and then added with a lower voice, “and back of the knee.” It earned him another pleased huff.

While one hand remained on his interface components, teasing, and triggering hot surges of sensations, the other let go of his wheel rim. Blast Off stroked over the rubber of the wheel, lighting up the pressure sensors, triggering sensations that made him squirm.

The light touch of the dark fingers reached the spoiler at Dead End’s back; they fondled the metal, and then the caresses moved further down. The Stunticon was close to sighing in disappointment, but the loss on his back was made up by Blast Off stroking down the full length of Dead End’s side. He tickled transformation seams with his energy field, and reached the waist. From there, the firm grip was on his aft, then his thigh, and Dead End was tugged even closer, his leg forced a little higher. 

With a static-laced whimper, Dead End complied. Panting heavily, his intakes hitched when Blast Off caressed the cables and mechanisms on the back of his knee. It was hard to suppress the needy moan that his vocal circuits threatened to produce.

The Stunticon was so occupied with his drifting thoughts and fantasies becoming true, he missed the click of Blast Off’s own panel opening.

Only when Blast Off’s connector plugged in, and Dead End’s was taken out of its housing, the smaller mech realised. He didn’t have much time to react, because shortly after the connection was established, the first surge of energy and data followed.

It was nonsense data, and heat spreading from his side that made him moan. Dead End looked up, his vision hazy.

He clutched at the strong shoulder, and his engine revved. It was a high-pitched sound, so contrary to the rattling vibrations of the shuttle. Blast Off’s face seemed unmoving, unlike Dead End’s. His lips trembled, and he moaned again at a sudden intense rush.

The data changed. Meaningless information became clearer, and the blurry vision changed as well. It got dark and cold around him. Threateningly cold, but the heat of the shuttle was comfortable, soothing, and Dead End urged him on.

“Blast Off,” he mumbled, head dropping, lips brushing over the plating in front of him. And the data morphed again. The black shadowy vision was lightened by a few bright dots, then colours mixed in, and whirls and shapes that resembled planets.

It made Dead End dizzy; his sense of balance messed up, and he held tighter onto Blast Off.

They hadn’t accessed each other’s sensor net, but Sigma, it felt like it. The Stunticon didn’t know how Blast Off did this, but he hoped he wouldn’t stop. He was floating, freezing, and within this strong hold. Fingers stroked the rim of his filled port while the other hand held up his thigh, forcing him so close. All this was accompanied by the views and sensations that made him feel even smaller. That showed how unimportant he was, how everyone was.

But maybe not Blast Off, because he’s seen so much. Seen _these_ things that were so amazing, wrapping around Dead End’s mind and enveloping him completely. The welcome dread of his meaningless existence mingled with the pleasurable rising charge and Blast Off’s presence inside him.

The energy stream was strong, but the pace kept slow as though prolonging all this, and Dead End wanted it. He wanted it slow, but his own body didn’t listen to him. His thoughts spun, and he lost control. Wave after wave pushed through the interface, and made the cables buzz with electricity. It took a moment of several astroseconds, then Blast Off’s stream adapted. The shuttle’s energy field pulsed powerfully; Dead End gasped at the heat that was so different to what his sensor net told him. 

His own field flared back, and then he heard Blast Off moan. The sound sent a thrill through the Stunticon; he whimpered.

Dead End pressed even closer, wrapped his arms around Blast Off’s neck and pulled himself up. He found Blast Off’s lips for a kiss. An urgent kiss that resembled his energy stream and throbbing field, and Dead End didn’t care that he acted like the youngster he was. He didn’t care that his awe, and dread, and affection for Blast Off might be obvious through their connection. Affection he hid, and didn’t even admit to himself, but it felt so good at the moment.

In between depressing images of his own unimportance, pulsing pleasure and surging bliss, he moaned, and mouthed incoherent words. He plead with Blast Off not to make it stop when sensors lit up, and waves rushed through him.

Blast Off’s hands moved, over Dead End’s aft, and hip, over his sides where they braced his desperate hold onto the shuttle. The touch was almost like caring, gentle support that was necessary the moment their energy field mingled.

Dead End’s vocaliser shrieked in pleasure, and the fake images flickered in his HUD. It was not far from being too much.

The sensations increased, the pleasure rose and burnt on Dead End’s circuits, and into the kiss; Blast Off growled, and suppressed a moan.

That was it.

And then it was gone.

Overload wiped Dead End’s processor. Thoughts stopped and were blanked out. There was only charge surging through him. Pleasure straining his sensor net so much, the electricity caused his vocaliser to produce only static. His grip around Blast Off tightened, and he pressed the side of his helm against Blast Off’s. The shuttle’s predatory growl in his own overload was recognised, and increased the charge further for just a moment, before it spiked when Blast Off’s climax pushed into him.

Dead End rode out the waves of pleasure, and sighed. Slowly he slid back down to sit onto Blast Off’s lap and enjoy the ripples of post-overload, the last remnants of electricity scintillating in his circuitry. 

A hand roved back to Dead End’s aft, and he uttered a last moan. 

Sigma, was been even better than Dead End had imagined. Urging closer once more, the Stunticon relaxed, and tried to enjoy this as long as possible.

The other’s contentment was clear through the interface, and the images of space were still there, but Dead End knew this wouldn’t last forever.

He knew Blast Off by now. And he liked that he knew him so well.


End file.
